The Willingness to Mutilate Children Says a Lot About a Society

Here I am at sixty-five, reflecting on my wild childhood of playing “war” with the neighborhood boys, building mud Forts on the banks of Fancher Creek, slinging the Tommy Gun I had inherited from my older brothers over my shoulder to go slaughter the neighborhood boys with rapid fire while they fought with faux shotguns and single shot cap guns.

At one point, a couple of the boys complained that I wasn’t playing fair. My sassy nine year old self told them to get their own Tommy Guns if they wanted to win. They didn’t like that and got me down and rubbed dirt in my hair. I didn’t cry, I kicked and punched them and picked up my Tommy Gun and stomped home.

“I hate boys!” was my final announcement.

I went home and played with my Barbies and rode my bike around the neighborhood, going as fast as I could. No helmet, no elbow coverings, nothing…just me and the street.

I was equally aggressive at school, spending every recess doing great feats of courage on the Monkey Bars, which hovered above concrete, not grass. In those days we had to wear dresses or skirts to school, so in order to play on the Monkey Bars, we had to bring shorts with us to put under our skirts for the sake of modesty. In the lower grades, I formed gangs of girls who would chase down boys, knock them to the ground and kiss them.

None of these things were a conscientious choice on my part, I don’t believe. I just had three older brothers and I relished their brave adventures and how they were regarded in the family with the pride of raising young men. I was an anomaly, adopted because they wanted a girl but didn’t want to take a chance on trying again and getting another boy. There I was, receiving all their hand-me-down weapons of war, the go-cart, the camping equipment, the tool sets. I modeled their behavior in hopes to grow up to be them with their “See Ya Later Alligator” cool-cat behavior.

At the same time, I loved my red velvet Christmas dresses and fancy Sunday shoes and would twirl endlessly around sporting a velvet skirt that covered a crinoline slip. I think it was when I was about twelve and put into dance skating lessons at the local roller rink, that I began to notice boys, not as rivals for contest, but as cute and charming partners that would hold my hand and put an arm around my waist to guide me through the routines. And once I got hooked on boys as potential romance material, I was smitten by lovely eyes, a cute smile and a decent sense of humor.

Even today, as when I was twelve, if a boy or man could make me laugh, I was extremely interested. I wasn’t interested in the bad boys with their furrowed brows and aloof personalities, I liked the young teenage boys who were fun. And in every serious relationship I’ve had as an adult, humor always ranked at the top. Be irreverent, be silly, come up with a hair brained scheme and I’m there!

All of this said, if that girl Bunnie were running around the block today, knocking out boys with her inherited Tommy Gun and building Mud Forts, I’d be in some kind of clinic being assessed with possible “Gender Dysphoria”. Adults would be seeking medical advice for their perception of me and how I interacted with the world.

“Doctor, she dresses in boys’ clothes and plays in the mud and plays war with the neighbor boys, she’s even beaten up a couple of them…she’s fallen out of trees three times! Her face is always muddy and she never brushes her hair…”

The Doctor might ask me “Do you want to be a Boy?” To which, at six or seven, I would have said “Yes!” But the Doctor wouldn’t go on to ask me the most important question, “Why?” If they did, my answer would have been “They have more fun and have better toys! They can get their clothes dirty and nobody yells at them.”

According to the British newpaper, The Daily Mail, “America's Child Trans Explosion in Charts: Gender dysphoria rates and puberty blocker prescriptions among under-18s have DOUBLED since 2017.” They even provide graphics.

At lunch with a friend, this subject came up and it wasn’t by me. I was actually surprised, because my friend is a fairly open person who more than anything else believes in live and let live. She has written books and has a podcast on subjects that inform you how to live your best life. How to be self-actualized. How to find your authentic self.

She said something like “It takes years to figure out who you are, and they’re saying these children are ready and mature enough to make drastic changes to their bodies because they believe this is who they are and will be from now on?”

Not a direct quote, but a gist of the conversation.

And yes, who I was at seven or fourteen or even eighteen, is not who I became.

What has amused me is when a man has said “You act like a man.” I’ve had that happen a few times. Wait, what? You’re insulting me for acting like you do and somehow that’s not an insult on yourself? My response has not been to deny it but say “Oh, well okay! I’ll take that as a compliment!”

Along with the chemical cocktail of puberty blockers, “top surgeries” as they call them, mastectomies as normal people call them, have risen substantially. The Daily Mail reports:

“Results showed children as young as 12 were offered irreversible operations between 2013 and 2020. The overall incidence of mastectomies among minors rose from 3.7 per 100,000 persons-years to 47.7 per 100,000 in that time.”

So basically wholesale butchery of young women’s bodies brought to you by the greater medical establishment. The infamous Nazi Doctor, the nicknamed “Angel of Death,” Joseph Mengele, would be proud.

The good news is there seems to be a turning.

Sixteen states have made plans or created legislation to ban transgender procedures and surgeries on minors. Thank God we are a Republic. But count on a vicious push back by the federal government.

But I think what is required of every American is outrage and push back on this sickness that is ruining a generation of children. It’s bad enough to have sexually explicit books in our school libraries or even in the classrooms (don’t start with me on this one, I have ordered all of them to see for myself and they are X-rated and frankly fetish filled stories of child sexploitation NOT a discussion of the birds and bees. The most talked about is a story of a girl who wants to transition to being a boy so she/him can give fellatio to her adult male romantic interest complete with illustrations…not your mama’s sex-ed by any stretch).

A constant in human history has been the increasing understanding of what age innocence should be protected. It has actually increased as the centuries have gone on. We no longer think, at least in Western culture, that marrying an eight year old girl to a thirty year old man is appropriate or even moral. We limit alcohol in all 50 states to 21 and older, with a few exceptions, like religious observance and even then the under 21 year old cannot buy it at the store (I checked all 50 states).

You can’t buy booze, but an immoral doctor will happily cut your boobs off at 15 years old. And there are some sick parents who will go right along with that mutilation of their child because they are in some bizarre Munchausen by Proxy mental health condition.

I am grateful I lived through a time when parents were not so involved in their kids’ lives to the point of living their sick fantasies through them. I was allowed to be a Tom Boy and run around the neighborhood shooting my plastic Tommy Gun at all the neighbor boys just as long as when the street lights came on I came home.